


You don't like me (You just want the attention)

by illuminatedcities



Series: Person of Interest AU's that I'm Very Much Totally Absolutely Not Writing At All [1]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Crack, M/M, Project Runway!AU, Suit Porn, actual tailor!Finch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-02
Updated: 2015-08-02
Packaged: 2018-04-12 15:33:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4484825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illuminatedcities/pseuds/illuminatedcities
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You really think it’s that bad?” John asks, tugging at the sleeves of the pantsuit he’s been working on. </p><p>“What were you thinking, <i>this hasn’t passed ‘bad’ all the way to ‘hideous’ yet, I’ll just put a fleece jacket over it and give it a final shove?</i>” Shaw asks. Project Runway!AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You don't like me (You just want the attention)

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Gossip, “Not Your Toy”. 
> 
> Honestly, this is all slayingbells' fault for not stopping me when they had the chance.

**Challenge No. 1, Eveningwear**

 

There is busy chatter in the workroom, the sounds of scissors and sewing machines and the occasional muttered curse. Someone is crying softly in a corner.

John is satisfied with his design so far:

The dress he’s making doesn’t have the kind of polished, finished look that he’s going for yet, but he’s happy with the fabric he chose, an understated black and white pattern.

Judging by the draping on his mannequin, it should come out alright.

“Quick, how do you remove coffee stains from silk?” Sameen snaps, grabbing John by the lapels with enough force to topple him a little off balance.

John carefully puts the fabric he’s been cutting aside.

After a moment of consideration, he moves the scissors out of Sameen’s reach, too.

“Did you have your lunch break at your work desk again?” He asks.

“Not the fucking point, Reese,” Sameen says through gritted teeth, looking about ready to punch him in the mouth.

 

Then again, she usually does.

“Equal parts of cold water and white vinegar, three to four tablespoons on the fabric, then carefully dab it off,” Finch says without looking up from where he is probably hand-stitching the buttonholes of a tweed jacket or something.

John turns to look at him:

He is wearing a gorgeous suit like usual, this time a soft earth tone with a powder blue shirt and an eccentric pocket square: His own design, no question.

The thing about Finch is that he looks like something out of a movie, the kind of retro-style tailor who has spent years perfecting his craft.

Sameen lets go of John and turns around.

“Is that a trap?” She asks, raising a “mess with me and it will be the last thing you ever do” eyebrow.

Finch looks up at her, the fabric never stilling under his hands.

The dress he’s been working on looks like a ball gown: The smooth, peach colored fabric falls over his hands, the stitching coming together seamlessly under his nimble fingers.

John busies himself with adding some unnecessary chalk marks on his own design.

“Well, you are free to research it first, but removing the stain only gets more difficult once it has dried,” Finch says matter-of-factly, before bending down again and pushing his glasses up his nose.

“He’s right,” Root says through the clothespins she is holding between her lips, smoothing the fabric of the skirt she’s been working on down with her black lacquered fingernails. “The best way to get it out is to remove it before it sets.”

John hides his smile behind his hand when Sameen huffs and takes her dress to march off into the bathroom, probably stealing a bottle of vinegar from a cleaning cart on the way.

 

\--

**__**“As soon as the little light on the camera comes on, you’re good to go.”

**John:** Okay. Sure. Uhm, hi. My name is John and I’m a designer.

 

_“Is there something else you want to say?”_

**John:** … Not really.

\--

“Christ, it’s like a Tulle explosion,” Root says, nodding in the direction of where Lionel is creating something that looks like a wedding cake reborn as an evening gown.

“It’s the Tulle Manhattan Project,” John says under his breath, wiggling his eyebrows, and Root barks a laugh before she can stop herself.

“Your black and white designs are very boring and you’re freakishly tall,” Root says quickly, frowning at him as if to compensate for the momentary slip.

She’s playing with the side of her dark hair that isn’t shorn into an undercut, facing John with a stare that is probably meant to communicate that she doesn’t like him.

(He knows that because she said it, many times, usually to his face.)

“You’re rude, I like that,” Sameen says, carrying her freshly stain-free gown in one hand and a large sandwich in the other.

Finch winces a little, but says nothing.

Root beams.

Finch just keeps working, unperturbed by the chaos and drama around him.

Unsurprisingly to John, Finch wins the challenge, acknowledging the praise with a gentle nod.

 

\--

 **Sameen:** (bites into sandwich)

_Would you like to talk about something?_

**Sameen:** Like what?

_The other contestants, maybe? The competition? What do you think your chances are?_

**Sameen:** (continues eating sandwich, occasionally throws threatening glance at camera)

_Nevermind._

_\--_

**Challenge No. 2, "Street chic" Look**

 

“This color is speaking volumes to me right now,” Carter says, holding up a roll of fabric that looks like it was made out of a radioactive pumpkin.

“Yes, it’s screaming _Choose me, I’ll give you flash blindness_ ,” Zoe comments, collecting her own fabrics.

John wanders the halls, stacked with all kinds of patterns and textures, looking for inspiration, when he sees Finch, trying to pull a roll of fabric from a high shelf.

“Here, let me,” John says, retrieving it for him.

Finch looks surprised, but he takes it.

“Thank you, Mr. Reese,” Finch says, courteously.

“My name is John.”

Finch mouth quirks into a smile.

“I’m well aware,” he says, before turning around and disappearing around a corner of stacked satin samples.

 

\--

 

 **Root:** I’m here because I want to start my own label, you know? It will be called _Bad Code._ I think, as far as the contestants go, that Harold is a really strong contender, and Sameen is very capable - she taught herself how to sew, and she has an almost surgical precision when she’s working. I couldn’t make her look bad if I tried. Also, I guess, this John guy, but. Well, _he’s_ annoying.

\--

 

There is mayhem in the work room:

Near hysterical contestants running around making last-ditch attempts to salvage their designs, to add a layer or redo a seam. Everyone keeps throwing panicked glances at the clock at the wall.

Grace, the little redhead who always does polka dot dresses, seems to finally snap under the pressure.

“Look,” she says, standing up on her chair, Taylor Swift blasting from the earphones she has ripped out of her ears , “I really like all of you a lot, but you need to get your stuff together and all shut up and work on your designs for an hour, because you’re seriously driving me insane!”

In the middle of the chaos, Finch is calmly working on his sewing machine, his hands moving swiftly over the fabric. He lets it slide smoothly underneath the needle, completely focused on his task.

John swallows hard at the sight of his _hands._ His long fingers are splayed over the dark green fabric, and Finch is touching it with enough care to almost be a caress --

The sharp pain in his thumb is a surprise, and when John looks down, he realizes that he’s been driving a sewing needle into his own hand. Brilliant.

“You okay?” Shaw asks. “Is that blood some kind of aesthetic choice or are you just an idiot?”

John curses and grabs a tissue before he can bleed all over the blouse he has been working on.

“I’m fine,” he says, quickly, winding the tissue firmly around his finger.

There is Avant Garde and then there is _too_ Avant Garde.

Finch looks up from his work, meeting his gaze, and John feels his neck go hot at the scrutiny.

Finch adjusts something on the sewing machine and gets back to work.

John tries to concentrate on his design, but Finch is balancing his felt-tip pen between his lips and it’s giving John serious _ideas._

And fuck, Finch’s hands on the fabric, tugging and rearranging it, the palms spread out flat, are just absurdly distracting.

Oh god, John is so _screwed._

_\--_

_“Honestly, it’s like you’ve been bridesmaids dress shopping at Forever21.”_

John nearly spits out his beer at Root’s impression of one of the judges, before he composes himself and makes his own try:

_“This design looks like a hangover personified.”_

There’s chuckling from Lionel and Carter, and Shaw steals some more fries from his plate.

Root doesn’t even look like she resents John’s entire existence, which is a first.

They’ve all needed to blow off some steam, so grabbing a beer at the pub across the street seemed like a good idea.

Somehow, Root managed to talk Finch into joining them, and now he sits across from John in the booth, nursing his Scotch.

“That’s the best you can do, Mr. Reese?” He asks.

John takes a slow sip of his beer, trying not to notice how much the color of Finch’s dress shirt brings out his eyes.

“I haven’t heard you giving it a try yet,” John replies.

There’s hooting from Carter and Shaw, and Root grins.

“Come on, Harold, let your inner Mean Girl show,” she says.

Finch clears his throat.

_“This is the most misguided color palette I’ve ever seen. It’s like the person who put it together was literally color blind and got knocked over the head with a blunt object.”_

There is a second of silence before the entire table breaks into howling laughter.

Finch leans back with a satisfied expression and takes a sip of his drink.

When John finds his gaze, he doesn’t look away.

 

\--

 

**Challenge No. 3, Unconventional Look**

**__**Is there something you want to share with the viewers?

 **Harold:** Not particularly, no.

_Nothing at all?_

**Harold:** I’m a very private person.

 

_(twenty more minutes of uncomfortable silence)_

 

\--

 

“I don’t think gold sequins can fix this, darling,” Carter says, fitting a belt to her asymmetrical dress.

“There is absolutely nothing that gold sequins _can’t_ fix,” Lionel mumbles.

It’s two hours until the end of the day, and everyone is in a rush to get their designs perfected.

Elias is putting the finishing touches on a dress that looks like it was created entirely out of toilet paper, and Harold and Root - both of them apparently working with the help of magical elves that finish their work at night - are touring the workroom and exchanging catty remarks in hushed tones.

“Bringing these two together was such a bad idea, this is how super villains are created,” Shaw says, sitting on John’s work desk and chewing gum.

“Oh god, is that _Corduroy_?” Harold whispers close to Root’s ear, sounding absolutely disgusted.

“I just threw up into my mouth a little,” Root says, not nearly as quietly.

Sameen nods at John’s design.

“What _is_ this?” She asks. “Are you having some kind of midlife-crisis?”

If anything, John is having an unresolved sexual tension crisis, but he certainly won’t tell _Sameen_ about that.

“You really think it’s that bad?” John asks, tugging at the sleeves of the pantsuit he’s been working on.

“What were you thinking, _this hasn’t passed ‘bad’ all the way to ‘hideous’ yet, I’ll just put a fleece jacket over it and give it a final shove_?” Shaw asks.

She looks like she’s witnessing a car crash. The kind where the freeway needs to be shut down for the entire day.

John rubs his forehead.

“Any ideas how I can salvage this?” He asks.

“Short of drowning it in a bathtub full of bleach? None,” Sameen says, patting his cheek condescendingly and walking away to punch a wall, probably.

 

\--

 

Nobody really understands what the fight between Root and Martine has been all about, but it ends with Greer trying to stop Martine from punching Root in the face, and Root yelling “I will _take a string of Bouclé yarn and strangle you with it!”,_ fighting John where he is holding her back at the shoulders.

“I really wish I could say that this is the weirdest thing that has happened all week,” Grace mutters, before putting in her earphones again and humming along to _Shake It Off._

 

\--

 

The only reason John stays in the competition is that Lionel has screwed up much, much worse than he has.

As it turns out, there are some things that even gold sequins can’t fix.

 

\--

**Challenge No. 4, Wedding dress**

“Oh please god, no,” Sameen groans, letting her head sink against the sewing desk.

 

\--

**Challenge No. 5, Avant-garde look**

 

It’s less than an hour until the runway show, and while Finch has already outfitted his models with gorgeous dresses and is now sitting at his workbench and enjoying a cup of green tea, John is a bit busy with not actually having a nervous breakdown. This? Is way more stressful than the military ever was.

“How are you doing, John?” Root asks, removing imaginary dust from her designs.

“I am behind on time, I have no clear sense of direction, I burned a hole into my last design with a glue gun, I am pretty sure I will have to cut the model out of the other dress with a pair of scissors after the runway show, _I am completely and utterly calm,”_ John says through clenched teeth.

Root gives him a void stare.

“You don’t care at all, do you?” John sighs.

“I really don’t, people just keep throwing this phrase around,” Root says, shrugging.

“Stop fidgeting, or I will literally duct tape this dress to your back,” Sameen snaps beside them, nearly making her model cry.

“Have you seen Greer’s design, though?” Root asks.

“The only possible accessory you could want with this is a fire extinguisher,” Harold mutters under his breath, sending Sameen and John into a fit of laughter.

Well, at least they go down laughing.

_\--_

**Challenge No. 6, Menswear**

“These lapels are wider than a highway, do you understand how to use measuring tape or do you just cut things randomly in half and hope that it will all come together somehow?” Finch asks.

He has been paired up with John for the team challenge, and while John would normally enjoy the opportunity to watch Finch so closely at work, right now he is just _driving John insane._

“It really draws your eye to the crotch,” Finch says, tugging at the inner seam of the pants John has done earlier.

“And how is that a bad thing?” John asks, with a sweet smile.

Finch looks up at him, cocking his head.

“Fair enough,” he allows. “That fabric is hideous, though,” he adds, pointing to the spread of fabric John has been working on.

“It looks like a second-grader’s arts and craft project exploded all over it,” Finch complains.

It’s thirty more minutes until the end of the day, and John is so far beyond frustrated that he can’t even _see_ frustrated from where he’s standing.

“How are you guys doing?” Sameen asks.

 _“Fine,”_ Harold and John both snap tersely.

Sameen walks away, muttering something that sounds suspiciously like _“Just get a fucking room.”_

**\--**

**The evening before the Runway Show**

When Finch opens the door, he has undone his tie and is half out of his jacket already.

“We need to talk,” John says, and Finch steps aside to let him in, closing the door behind him.

“I realize that we don’t see eye to eye on many things, but we will have to _deliver_ tomorrow --“

“Why did you stab yourself with the sewing needle?” Finch asks.

John blinks.

“Why did I what?” He asks, intelligently.

“During the second challenge. You hurt yourself, I was wondering how that happened. You are usually very good with tasks that require… fine motor skills.”

“I was distracted,” John says, trying not to blush at the compliment.

Finch is standing _really_ close:

John can see the pattern on his jacket, the elegant cut around the waist, every little stitch of yarn on his pocket square.

“Distracted by what?” Finch asks, curiously.

John looks down at Finch’s hands on instinct, just the barest glance, and Finch - _Harold_ \- says, “Ah, yes, I thought so,” and leans in to kiss him.

The first thought John has is that Finch’s jacket really feels as good beneath John’s fingers as he had imagined it, but then he is busy kissing him back, his hands sliding against the skin of Finch’s neck, brushing against the short hairs there.

John is pulling him close, Harold’s hand warm and firm on his cheek, keeping him in place.

Then John parts his lips and _oh,_ that is even better, Finch teasing the inner seam of his lips with the tip of his tongue, making John shiver deliciously.

They kiss for some time, before John draws back and pulls in a gulping breath, his pulse beating wildly.

“That,” he says, “Isn’t going to be distracting at all.”

“I was going to comment on the line of your pants, but--,” Finch says, gesturing to where John’s erection is tenting the fabric.

John chuckles, taking Harold’s hands in his, greedily touching every bit of exposed skin. 

There are calluses on Harold’s palm from sewing, and he smells like tailor’s chalk and green tea.

“You know, I’ve always been curious about the stitching pattern of your designs,” John says, sliding his hand between Harold’s legs, cupping his erection.

Harold gasps, hands clinging to John’s shoulders.

“Maybe this is something I could investigate further?” John asks.

He runs his thumb over the seam of Harold’s pants all the way up to his crotch, letting him push against his palm.

“Please do,” Harold says roughly, breathing heavily against John’s chest.

John tugs the jacket all the way off Harold’s shoulders and lets it fall carelessly to the floor. Amazingly, Harold seems too focused on other things to notice or care.

“You’re brilliant,” John says between kisses, following Harold’s lead until they are close enough to fall down onto the bed, Harold landing half on top of him. “And so _annoying_.”

Harold chuckles, pulling John’s shirt out of his pants and opening his belt, his hands grazing naked skin underneath.

“Nobody appreciates _genius_ , “ Harold says, and then he gets a hand into John’s pants and John forgets what he was going to complain about instantly, because _yes_.

Harold looks disheveled, his hair mussed up and his tie and waistcoat undone, his lips red and swollen from kissing, and it’s the hottest thing John has ever seen.

“ _Yes_ , please, oh,” John mumbles against his neck, his hips thrusting into Harold’s grip, his face buried against the naked skin exposed by his open collar.

Harold’s free hand comes around him to slide under John’s shirt and stroke over his back, the touch on his naked skin electrifying.

“It’s a good thing you didn’t distract _me_ , with your ridiculously tight pants and the way you were always bending over that desk of yours, making me think of all of the things I want to do to you -- “

John whines, his hips jerking violently.

“It’s a mystery to me how I got any work done at all, what is it with the way you always wear your shirts half unbuttoned, is it some kind of --“ His thumb finds the spot just beneath the head and John bites down hard on his own lip. “Bizarre fashion choice?”

“What _did_ you want to do to me?” John mumbles against him, kissing the hollow of Harold’s throat.

“Bend you right over that work desk and fuck you, for once,” Harold says, voice level, and then he lets his thumb run over the head of his cock in tight circles and John is gone, shuddering against him and spilling in his pants.

Harold chuckles softly and presses a kiss to the top of John’s head where he is leaning against him, panting against his shirt.

“I’m flattered, _John_ ,” Harold says, and John makes a meek little noise.

He stays like that for a moment, trying to get his brain back online while Harold strokes circles against his back.

“If I had known this was all that was needed for a successful collaboration, I would have - _oh,_ ” Harold gasps, when John unceremoniously drops his head into Harold’s lap.

John opens the button and then closes his teeth around the metal zipper, pulling it down.

“Showoff,” Harold mumbles, but his voice is tight with arousal, the outline of his cock clearly visible against the smooth fabric of his underwear.

They’re silk boxer briefs, probably absurdly expensive, and John slides his cheek against Harold’s erection, nosing against the skin-warm fabric.

He puts his mouth over the fullness of Harold’s cock, licking and sucking until the silk is wet and heavy beneath his tongue, the smell of Harold’s arousal filling his nostrils.

Harold hisses and lets his hand rest on John’s head, fingers combing through his hair.

“I know you probably appreciate Italian silk as much as I do, but I’ve been halfway to embarrassing myself ever since I kissed you, so _please_ ,” Harold says through gritted teeth, and John breathes a laugh, the hot air against the wet fabric making Harold shudder beneath him.

John pulls his underwear down, Harold’s cock springing free, flushed and heavy in John’s hand, and John takes him into his mouth without hesitation, sliding his tongue along the underside.

Harold makes a noise that sounds like a sob, so John does it again, fingers curled around the base, his lips closed firmly around the shaft, moving in a slow rhythm.

John regrets that he didn’t get Harold all the way out of his clothes, but there is a special kind of thrill to going down on him like this, feeling the fabric of Harold’s suit slide against his skin while he sucks him off.

John speeds up the pace, Harold moaning and panting above him, and John pulls back a little to lick off the drops of precome that have gathered at the head.

“ _John,”_ Harold gasps above him, urging John on even more.

Harold’s hands tighten in his hair in warning, probably trying to pull him off, but John just hums around his cock in agreement, sliding down even further.

Harold makes a noise low in his throat and comes, filling up John’s mouth, his hand still firmly gripping John’s hair.

After, he carefully loosens his grip, still panting heavily.

John lets his cock slide out of his mouth and sits up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Harold blinks up at him, completely dazed.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Harold says, “but I just figured out how we can make that design work for tomorrow.”

John laughs until he’s out of breath, climbing into bed next to Harold, curling up closely.

“Your mind works in mysterious ways,” John says, nuzzling Harold’s throat.

“Mmh, your technique is rather spectacular, you probably rebooted my entire brain,” Harold says, closing his eyes and moving his head a little so John has room to work.

After a moment, Harold cracks one eye open suspiciously.

“No hickeys over the collar line, we’re on national television tomorrow.”

John grins against his skin and moves down to Harold’s collarbones.

“As you please,” he says.

 

\--

 

**The Runway Show**

“Ready, Mr. Reese?” Harold asks, before they step out onto the stage.

“Always, Harold,” John says, grinning, and follows him into the spotlight.

 

 

\-- fin


End file.
